The ball was dead. Not in the way a good receive killed its spin, but in the way a body goes limp. It hit the floorboards with a dull, pathetic thud that echoed in the cavernous silence of the gym.
Nishinoya hated this gym after practice. The shouts and squeak of shoes were gone, replaced by the low hum of the overhead lights and the ghosts of missed spikes. He especially hated these particular floorboards. They’d been newly varnished over the summer, and the finish was too slick. It didn’t have the proper give, the familiar worn-in grit his palms and knees knew as home. A floor wasn't just wood. It was a partner. This one was a bad dancer.
"Noya, you done with that side?"
Daichi’s voice bounced off the far wall. He and Suga were packing the last of the balls into the cart. Noya grunted, shoving a stray Mikasa ball with his foot towards the net. He didn't want to be here. He wanted the noise back. He wanted the heavy, satisfying *whump* of a hand connecting perfectly with a toss. He wanted the air to taste of sweat and effort, not floor polish and impending winter.
He wanted his ace.
The thought was a hot stone in his gut. It had been sitting there for weeks, heavy and indigestible. Every practice without Asahi felt like a lie. Tanaka’s hits were powerful, sure, and the freak quick from the new first-years was a thing of chaotic beauty, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn't the sound of a cannon firing from the left side, a sound so immense it felt like it could shatter the back wall. A sound that made his job, his entire reason for being on the court, sing.
He was a libero. His purpose was to keep the ball in the air. To connect. To build a bridge between the opponent’s attack and his team’s counter. But his most important connection felt severed, the anchor point gone, and now he was just… floating.
"Nishinoya." Suga’s tone was softer, but it held a new edge these days. A weariness. "We're locking up."
Screw this.
He stalked over to the benches, yanking his jacket from his bag. The motion was too rough, and his water bottle clattered to the floor. He ignored it.
"Oi, Noya," Daichi started, his captain’s voice already lowering into its warning register.
"I'm going," Nishinoya snapped, not looking at them. He couldn’t. If he saw the disappointment in their eyes, the same tired resignation he saw every day, the hot stone in his gut might just burn a hole right through him. He had to do something. Anything but this quiet, miserable waiting.
He slung his bag over his shoulder and marched towards the exit, his sneakers squeaking angrily on the traitorous floor.
"Where are you going?" Daichi called after him.
"To fix it!" he yelled back, slamming the gym door behind him. The sound was satisfyingly loud.
The walk was automatic. His feet knew the path from Karasuno to the street where Asahi lived, every crack in the pavement, every crooked fence. The sun was bleeding out behind the mountains, painting the clouds in bruised shades of orange and purple. A cold wind bit at his cheeks. He shoved his hands in his pockets, replaying the speech in his head.
*It’s my fault if a spike gets blocked. I’m the guardian. I keep the ball alive so you can hit it again. And again. And again until you break through. So what are you afraid of? I’m here. We’re here.*
Simple. It was a simple truth. Volleyball was a simple sport. You keep the ball from hitting your side of the court. You make it hit their side. Why was Asahi making it so complicated?
He rounded the corner by the Sakanoshita Market and stopped. There, illuminated by the harsh white light of a vending machine, stood the problem. Asahi wasn’t alone. Daichi and Suga were with him, having clearly taken a shortcut. They must have left right after him.
A quiet, tense triangle. Suga was saying something low and earnest. Daichi stood with his arms crossed, a formidable wall of disapproval. And Asahi… Asahi just looked tired. His shoulders were slumped, his hair was tied back messily, and he stared at the ground as if it held the answer to a question he was afraid to ask.
Nishinoya’s carefully rehearsed speech evaporated. All that was left was the raw, hot anger.
"Asahi-san!"
The three of them flinched. Asahi’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with a familiar, hunted look that made Noya’s fists clench.
"Noya," Suga said, stepping forward slightly, a hand half-raised as if to placate a wild animal. "Let's not do this here."
"Why not?" Nishinoya’s voice was too loud in the quiet street. "We don't see him at practice. We don't see him in the club room. Where else am I supposed to talk to him?" He took a step closer, pinning Asahi with his gaze. "Why aren't you coming back? The first-years are here. We have a full team. We need our ace."
Asahi winced at the word "ace." He looked away, towards the darkening sky. "I… I can't, Nishinoya. I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what? For quitting?" The accusation hung in the air, sharp and ugly. "Is it because of that match? Because you got blocked? So what! Everyone gets blocked! I miss receives! Kageyama makes bad tosses! Hinata hits the ball with his face! That's volleyball! You just get up and you do it again!"
"It's not that simple," Daichi cut in, his voice dangerously low. "You don't know the whole story."
"Then tell me!" Noya whirled on him. "What story? That our ace is scared of a block? I'll get the ball. I swear to you, Asahi-san," he turned back, his voice cracking with the sheer force of his conviction. "No matter how many times they block you, I'll save it. I'll keep it in the air for you. I promise. So just… just call for a toss!"
For a second, a flicker of something went through Asahi's eyes. The old fire. The hunger. But then it was gone, smothered by a wave of exhaustion so profound it seemed to age him. He shook his head slowly.
"You still don't get it," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "It’s not the block, Noya." He finally met Nishinoya's eyes, and his gaze was clear, steady, and utterly devastating. "It was never about the block."
Daichi sighed, a sound of pure frustration, and turned to the vending machine, jamming coins into the slot. A can of cold green tea rumbled down into the tray. As he bent to get it, the metallic tang and the faint, bitter scent of the tea drifted towards Noya.
He flinched, a sharp, involuntary recoil. He hated that smell. Bitter, like old leaves left to rot in the pot. It snagged on something deep inside him, a memory he couldn't place but felt as a physical chill.
"Let's go, Asahi," Suga said gently, placing a hand on the taller boy's back. Asahi nodded, not looking at Nishinoya again. He just turned and walked away, a giant retreating into the shadows, with Daichi and Suga flanking him like guards.
Nishinoya stood frozen, the force of his anger completely spent, leaving a hollow, ringing silence in its wake. They left the can of green tea, beads of condensation already forming on its surface, sitting on the top of the humming machine.
It wasn't about the block.
Then what was it about? The question landed in the hollow space inside him, cold and heavy. He stared at the spot where his ace had been, and for the first time, felt the terrifying possibility that his promise, the very core of his identity as a player, wasn't enough.